Beyond Memory
by Victoria Hughes
Summary: prequel to mikkeneko's 'In Living Memory'. Ed's in prison for a crime he didn't commit. Warnings for torture, swearing, and slurs.
1. Stolen

Showers were three minutes long at Third Central Prison, no more, no less.

This was going to be a problem.

Ed let out his hair before he got to the shower in preparation, but he regretted it less than five seconds after the frigid water started. "Aww, look, it's a little pussy," purred a voice.

Ed drew up his shoulders, bristling, but didn't turn to face the voice. _Better not to look. He can underestimate you until he's too close._

"Goldilocks," said another voice, deeper. This one was from his left side. Edward glanced his way and caught the baldheaded freak actually licking his lips. He was crossing the shower room, his feet slapping on the floor.

Showtime. With a grunt of irritation, Edward stepped out of the direct spray of cold water. "You somehow miss the girl's bathroom, skinhead, or you like dicks?" he asked, not looking at the baldhead coming his way.

"Fucking smartass. With hair like that, you're probably screwing every man in town, faggot," the man sneered. "Com'n, pussy, I'll give you some real cock to play with."

"So you _do_ like dicks." Ed spun to face the baldhead with a sneer. "Mn, nah, you don't have enough hair for me. Sorry." _Bravado. Make them regret they ever talked to you._

"You little cunt!" the man grabbed Ed's arm. _Bad move!_ With a grunt of effort Ed hooked his elbow around the man's forearm, hooked his foot behind the man's ankle, and heaved forward with his shoulder. Ed's attacker crashed to the ground with a grunt of pain, "Fucker--!" he gasped.

Ed had been in the brig for the past two months, and in jail proper for the past two days. It took him only a moment to decide how brutal he wanted to be. He stomped on the man's thigh with his metal leg and felt his bone give way. "If anyone else messes with me, I'll do the same to them," he hissed, wet hair flinging water over his shoulder. "I'm nobody's cum-dump, you got that?"

The man screamed bloody murder at the same time as the showers stopped. Ed was panting with adrenaline, shivering from the cold, and the washcloth of a towel thrust at him was nearly useless. He did his best, water dripping down his back from his hair.

"What happened to this guy, Fullmetal?" snapped a guard as the man grasped his broken leg, rolling in agony. "Must've slipped," Ed said nonchalantly.

&

"Slipped, huh? Hell of a slip, Fullmetal," Inspector Crowley was irritable.

So was Edward, as he sat with his arms bound back and in shackles especially designed to prevent his use of alchemy. "What difference does it make if I broke his leg or not?" he shot back testily.

Crowley was the one that always played 'nice guy'. When Ed had been arrested, this was the man they tried to use to obtain a confession. Ed didn't like him any better now. "Edward! Don't you want to get off for good behavior?"

"Oh, don't fucking patronize me." Ed's lip curled. "I singlehandedly killed thousands of people - according to _you_ jokers. I'm not going anywhere. You can't make me run into your arms every time some guy tries to ream me up the ass or punch me, so you better get used to broken legs, cause until someone catches on, they're gonna keep right on breaking."

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. "You would be every lawyer's worst nightmare."

"Fuck you too," Ed rolled his eyes. "Can I go now?" "We can't have these kinds of incidents regularly." Crowley looked up at Edward with a tight look. "Either get a grip on yourself, or your automail will be removed. I'm going to sign a paper - ah, here ... authorizing the guards here full access to your auto-prosthetics should they decide the need to remove them has risen." Crowley signed the paper with a flourish.

Ed felt the color go out of his face. "Are you _trying_ to kill me? Oh, wait, stupid question!" He jammed his shackles against the back of his chair, but nothing gave.

"Behave yourself, and it should be fine," Crowley shrugged, leaving the room.

Ed sucked in a long, shaky breath through his teeth and let it out, eyeing the three guards now all eyeing him speculatively. "I think we should pre-empt him, just in case, of course," suggested one of them, a tall, thin-shouldered man. "Take it off now."

"After what he did," added another, "he'd damn well deserve what he got."

Ed's mind raced. Removing his automail right now would be easier than stealing a piece of pie, and he wouldn't survive the night. His mind flashed forward to defenselessness, and -- he cut off the thoughts, actually shaking. "Deserve it?" he asked, mustering all the bravado he could and actually managing a laugh.

The guard that had been silent up to this point suddenly spoke up. Ed craned his neck to see him, but he couldn't look that far back. "What's the problem with letting him keep some of the fuckers in line?" he asked. Ed felt a stab of relief. "As long as we can come to some kind of ... agreement."

"Okay, I'm listening," said the first guard.

Agreements were a step up from defenseless and getting fucked into his cot or beaten senseless. Ed swallowed anything he'd wanted to say, listening as well. Fingers fisted in his braid. Edward tensed again. "We don't want him to die before his sentence is up. Let him keep the automail. But to make sure his stay is ... everything it ought to be ... he'd damn well better not do anything to the guards." The fingers tightened and tugged. "Or we'll rethink the automail."

Ed swallowed. "If you do anything remotely sexual, I'll kick you so far into next week you'll--- ack!" A sharp jerk on his braid caught him short.

"We're not as desperate as you criminals." Ed could hear the sneer in his voice. "We go home to wives and children. Trust me, you wouldn't look half as appealing to the inmates if they ever saw a woman." There was a pause. "You're the closest thing to a woman some of these fuckers have seen in years."

Ed grit his teeth, but bit his tongue. "Okay, fine," he gritted out. "For my part, I'll honor the deal."

"Of course you will." The guard, whomever he was, jerked on his braid again, pulling his head back, forcing Ed's head up to face the opposite wall and the slight, suppressed smirk on the tall, thin guard's face. Ed winced. _Endure it!_ "Here," the guard holding him by the hair continued. There was an audible click. "I'll even start by doing you a favor."

Ed opened his mouth to protest, suddenly gripped by the fear that the man was about to shoot him in the back of the head, when he felt a sawing motion in his hair.

_In his hair._

"Get your fucking fingers out of my braid!" Ed screeched, suddenly sick to his stomach.

The tall, thin guard's arm flashed out and caught Ed across the face, and the guard behind him snickered. The sensation of hairs separating from his head didn't stop. "After this," he said softly, "Maybe you won't resemble a woman enough to get screwed by the straight guys. Then you'll only have the fags after you."

Ed blinked away stars and was startled to realize his eyes were burning with tears. He grit his teeth and blinked them back, as the guard calmly cut off chunk after chunk of his hair. "Aww, is he sad about his hair?" said the second guard, who up until this time had been silent. "Guess he liked the attention after all!"

The last hunk of Ed's braid was chopped off, and the guard threw it on the table in front of him, half-unravelled. Ed stared at it, setting his teeth. His head felt strangely light. There was no familiar weight on his back, no hair tickling his neck.

"Much better," the guard said, ruffling Ed's hair, laughing along with the others. "All right, get him back to his cell. I'll clean up after this. Unless he wants to take his hair with him as a security blanket?"

Ed opened and closed his mouth, furious, as they dragged him out of the chair. He was going to have to learn restraint.

"No," he said quietly, feeling sick. "You can have the damn hair.

"It grows back."


	2. Fight Club

The showers at Third Central Prison were three minutes long, no more, no less, but afterwards, it was enough time to get his hair wet, soapy, and rinsed before the water stopped.

It stung more than Edward was willing to admit that the guards were right. He would have been forced to chop off his own hair within a week, surely; it would have grown ratty, he would have gotten lice, and the braid was ... too convenient a handhold.

_I was a real dick,_ Ed thought. _Mustang watched my back and I never even noticed._

No one here to watch his back. He missed Al so intensely that he'd wake up with wet cheeks, shivering, and thanking whatever god was out there that he hadn't woken his bunkmate. It was both a comfort and a bitter pill to know that Al didn't know him, couldn't know him, couldn't worry about him or fight for him - he was safe, tucked away in a little town not unlike Risenbourg, probably living a pleasant, easy life. Ed was selfish. He wanted Al right here, next to him, fighting at his side.

When Ed reappeared with short hair he wasn't sure what to make of the muttering about weaknesses and sexuality, but it pleased him that the general belief was that he'd cut it off himself. That was fine. Eventually there would be no hiding the fact he was the guards' bitch, but until then, he had a reputation to create.

Ed knew a lot about building reputations.

The brig had a far different atmosphere than this civilian prison; everyone mostly minded their own business, if someone got into an altercation with someone else, the guards were quick to intervene, and for the most part, there was a sort of military decorum. There was no such thing here. There were gangs, and they had 'territory', and fights and squabbles and ... it was all very stupid, in Ed's opinion. Who cared where you were in a shithole like this? The moment they stepped outside their confined little life, they'd realize how petty and stupid everything was. But Ed was the only one of this opinion, and his opinion didn't matter at the moment. He was forced to play their game simply by existing in it. Fortunately, breaking the skinhead's leg had already earned him merit points.

The only advantage Ed could see to being in a gang was that everyone looked out for their own. The skinheads were no exception. Two days after he'd flattened the guy, one day after his hair had been chopped off, he was in the showers again when four of the skinheads filed in the door. Ed watched them come in, and slid towards the wall fluidly.

"What the fuck is with you guys and bugging me when I'm naked?" he asked, trying to appear less jumpy than he felt.

"Poetic justice, bitch," grinned one of them. He had the right to be cocky; somehow he'd gotten hold of a knife. "Gonna slit you from navel to nose."

"You should use that thing to cut off your buddy's cock," Ed shot back, "So he doesn't embarrass you when he's caught with a guy."

There was a sick pause in which the water stopped running, then the four skinheads started to snicker. One of them, a stocky guy with a tatoo on his bald head, sneered. "We seen you with long hair. You pretty fuckable, cunt."

"Just try it," Ed snarled, falling into stance on the slippery floor, his automail arm out in front - a show of power. Four grown men; his best bet was if one of them ran away, or they were taken completely by surprise.

"Nah," sneered the knife man. "We'll just give you back to him when we're done." He lifted his chin, jerking at Ed.

The other three fell on him almost in unison. Tatoo Head was first within range, though, and Ed wheeled around and whipped him in the cheek with a high roundhouse kick - with his automail leg. He fell like a stone, but the guy next to him grabbed Ed's leg and jerked it. The floor was slippery and Ed had no purchase; his flesh leg flew out from under him and he cracked his head on the wall behind him. Stars erupted behind his eyes. A fist slammed into his solar plexus and Ed lost his breath in a whoosh of air; he flailed blindly with his right arm and hit flesh and bone, getting a satisfying grunt of pain. Another fist slammed into his jaw though, and Ed's head whipped sideways even as his vision began to clear. He gasped for air. They were grabbing for his arms. The quarters were too close; Ed couldn't get in a good punch. Melee fighting was a bitch, he remembered belatedly, elbowing one of the skinheads in the stomach and biting the arm of the other one.

"Ah, fuck!" screeched the bitten one. "Get your fucking teeth out of my arm!" He grabbed Ed by his hair and slammed his head back into the wall again with his free hand.

Ed was still dizzy from the first crack, but he was only vaguely aware of it when his mouth slackened and the man he'd bitten punched him across the mouth. "You piece of shit!" He punched Ed again.

"Fucking relax!" snapped another voice. "Get his arms back." They were pulling his arms behind him. Ed panted for breath, looking up through unfocused eyes to see Knife approaching with his weapon up and a sneering grin on his face. Tattoo was on the floor, groaning and trying to get up.

"You're all talk," Knife laughed.

"You think so?" Ed felt a loose tooth; he hoped it didn't come out. "Come here, I'll show you the difference in skill between us," he grinned, still breathing hard.

Knife pressed his box cutter up into Edward's throat. "I think our initials would look damn good carved right here," he whispered in Ed's ear.

"Talk to me about it tomorrow, fucker," Ed whispered back. He brushed together his crossed fingertips behind his back and pressed them against the wall. The familiar crackle of alchemy followed, and the tiles erupted outwards, slamming into the sides of the two skinheads holding him down - just enough to unbalance them. Just enough. _Never let it be said the Full Metal Alchemist couldn't fight without his alchemy,_ Ed thought bitterly as both of them stumbled and their grips loosened.

"Fuck!" Knife's eyes widened, and then he made a squawking, sick sound when Ed kicked him shamelessly in the groin. He tore his arms free of the two men holding him down and shoved his shoulder into one of their chests; he slid a couple of feet on the wet floor in his boots before losing his balance and falling backwards. Ed toppled with him, still dizzy. He grabbed the man by the forehead and slammed his head back against the tiled floor once, twice, three times - the man went limp, just as fingers closed in Ed's hair again, yanking back.

"Fucking hell, what is with you people and my goddamn _hair?_" Ed yelled in frustration as he was dragged back off the limp skinhead.

"Goddammit, Fullmetal!" The man who had him by the hair forced Ed to his feet. "Take his arm - put him in solitary-!"

Ed looked up and found himself face to face with a guard. "... oh," he said belatedly.

By then, though, it was too late.


	3. Not Alone

Solitary was a three-meter by three-meter room furnished by a moth-eaten blanket. There were no windows. The door was thick and fresh air came from a small pipe in the ceiling. There was no light. There was almost no sound. And there was nothing to do.

Ed had a decent internal clock. He felt his stomach growl insistently as dinnertime came and went; he estimated supper was when his stomach was clawing his backbone. He spent the day scouring the cell for soemthing to write with, anything, crawling on his hand and knee and stump - he couldn't, wouldn't escape, but anything to maybe let the light in, do something to alleviate the boredom. There was nothing. He considered using blood, but the last thing he needed was a damn infection. He tried sleeping, but he was so hungry that it was fitful.

By the time he woke up for good, his internal clock had comepletely lost track of time. There was no food. There was still no food. No light. No food. No sound.

Ed began to understand why some people talked to themselves.

Instead, he talked to Al. He talked to Mustang, said all the things he wished he'd said. Reviewed, over and over, if there was any way he could have avoided prison. He ran through the alchemic principles, created two new arrays in his head for making food from basic ingredients, and dreamed up the first chapter of his book about how every theory about the Stone was basically wrong. He reviewed the fight that had ended with him here. What the fuck had that been, anyway? Didn't a guy get a reputation? He'd been convicted for killing thousands of people, brutally murdering his little brother, and these people _still_ wanted to mess with him? They must have thought themselves pretty badass.

His head pounded. Ed curled up by the door and watched his hand as it shook uncontrollably. "I'm thirsty," he called. "For fuck's sake, just a little water."

No answer.

If he couldn't hear them, they couldn't hear him. He'd seen how thick the door was. He pounded on it, called out, curled up into a ball and moaned in agony when the headache grew worse. "I'm gonna die, you fucking bastards!" he screamed.

No answer.

When he woke up he was choking as something scalding hot was poured into his mouth. Ed spluttered, coughed, swallowed hard. Liquid! "Drink up, Elric, it's the best you're gonna get," laughed whomever was looming over him.

Ed didn't wait for the invitation; he drank eagerly, tongue burned beyond taste. The cup was snatched away all too soon, and Ed made a motion to grab for it, weakly. Someone slapped him across his sore jaw for trying.

Ed swallowed hard and breathed slowly, getting his bearings. Despite the drink, his mouth felt dry; swallowing hurt. He coughed. People were grabbing his arm and shoulder, hauling him up to his foot. "We're gonna take a little walk down the hall," someone said.

"Can' walk. Leg would help," Ed slurred. His tongue felt thick.

"You won't need it just yet. Come on." He was pushed out into the hall, half-dragged. The light hurt his eyes. Ed remembered, vaguely, having modesty, but there was something about prisons and nakedness. He would swear by it. Naked for inspections, naked for showers, naked for goddamn solitary - naked for whatever the fuck this was. At least there was ... stimulation, or something.

They half-carried him into another room, mercifully dim, that smelled vaguely of blood, although Ed wasn't sure of that. His own odor was more than pungent. But then he caught a whiff of - oh, was that toast? Butter--

"Good morning, Elric."Ed turned his head to see who it was, but the guard pushing him down into a metal chair blocked his view. His wrist was yanked back and tied down; someone lashed his foot to the leg of the chair. "Welcome back from solitary."

There was a table in front of him, set with buttered toast and sunny-side-down eggs and orange juice and milk - even milk. He would take anything now. The smell was heavenly. This had to be what the guards ate or something. "Foo'," he said. "Puh--" he swallowed again. His tongue felt swollen to twice its normal size.

The guard sitting across from him was someone Ed had never seen before. He smiled, but it wasn't a friendly look. Ed glared at him. "You want some of this? I'm not supposed to give it to you, you know. This isn't for prisoners." He paused. "But I know you must be hungry, so I'll make an exception." He leaned forward and tore off a piece of the toast. "Here." He pushed it towards Ed's lips.

Ed wasn't above accepting the food straight from the man's fingers, but as soon as it made contact with his gums, his tongue - it was like tiny knives in his mouth. He could barely chew. "Guh--" he wasn't going to be able to swallow it. He bent over and spit out the toast on the table.

"What's the problem, Elric?" The guard's hand slammed down on the table, and he stood over it, grabbing Ed's jaw and forcing him to look up. "That's perfectly good food! You trying to starve yourself?"

"Can' chew," Ed grimaced. "Water--" Cold. Something _cold--_

The guard let go of his jaw, but only to backhand him across the face. Ed's head whipped sideways. "Going on a hunger strike is against regulations here, Elric," the guard hissed. "That's three days you wouldn't eat, now."

"Fuggin' liar," Ed snarled, but he didn't get out another word before dirty material was shoved between his teeth and pulled back. He felt the gag being tied smartly behind his head, and he breathed hard through his nose as he rolled his eyes up to glare at the guard across from him.

"Refusing to eat is punishable by lashes," the guard said cooly. He held out his hand; Ed watched with growing horror as another guard placed a bullwhip in it. "Just consider yourself lucky we couldn't get the cat'o'ninetails. Get him up."

The guard who'd handed the first guard the bullwhip moved to help another untie Edward's hands and leg and haul him back out of the chair. Fury at the unfairness of this coursed through Edward; he struggled, catching one guard across the face before they managed to restrain him. "Remember," hissed one guard in his ear, "our agreement."

_Yeah? Where's my automail now?_ Ed thought furiously as he was hauled backwards. At least three men had a hold on him. He snarled at the man through his gag.

"Or," the guard continued, "You won't get back the automail at all."

Ed clenched his fist, hissing, but he was had. It didn't matter at this point, anyway; his arm was hauled up, stretched over his head, and he was lashed to a hook hanging from the ceiling. It was just low enough that he could put down the balls of his foot on the ground, but he had no purchase. He watched with uncomfortable anticipation as the guard with the whip went to the guard Ed had caught in the face; he was wiping blood off his lip. "Here," he said calmly, a thin, frightening smile on his face. "Do the honors, if you wish."

Ed turned away. He counted guards, trying to memorize faces. The guard in charge of this, obviously, had sandy hair and brown eyes, a medium build. Two guards he couldn't quite make out standing on either side of the door in the dimness. The one with a bloody lip. And he could hear another one moving around over to his left.

The guard with the bloody lip looked at the bullwhip in his hand, then up at Ed, and a small, unhappy frown crossed his face. Ed swallowed against the gag.

He pressed the whip back into the first guard's hands. "Ten lashes, Mason. That's it," he said quietly. "Don't forget."

"You're so legalistic, Foley," Mason rolled his eyes. He took the whip with a flourish. "Don't worry - he won't get any more or less than he deserves." He met Ed's eyes, and Ed barely kept himself passive in the face of the utter _hatred_ there. What the fuck was this guy's problem?

Mason moved out of Ed's range of vision. His arm was beginning to go numb.

The first whipcrack arched his back from the sheer noise as much as the sudden, lancing pain across his back. It faded to a throb quickly, and Ed panted through his gag, squeezing his eyes shut. He doubted this lashing would end at ten strokes, but he counted down anyway, fighting to hold himself against the ground with his toes. Nine. Eight. Seven - the whip curled over his shoulder and tore against the muscles between his automail and neck. Six. Five. Four. Three - he bunched the muscles in his arm, chewing the gag in his mouth to catch a cry. Two. One. The lashing stopped. Ed panted through his nose, waiting, but when nothing came, he slowly began to relax, muscles trembling.

He heard the whistle of air before he felt the whip cross his back again. It hurt even more for the surprise of it, and he made a sound for the first time. "Nngh!" He didn't relax again, holding himself tremblingly still, slitting his eyes open cautiously.

"Mason!" cried Foley. One of the guards at the door nudged the other and snickered.

"Relax, Foley," Mason sneered. "I'm just going to see if Elric's still feeling obstinate about eating." A hand pressed into his back, and Ed grunted, wincing, but fingers were picking at his gag. It fell loose and was roughly pulled from his mouth. "How're you feeling, Elric?"

"Fugg you," Ed panted, shaking. His lips were cracked; he could taste blood. "I can' chew! I wan' food, bu' I can' chew!"

"If you can chew, why don't you?" Mason said smugly, going to the table and ripping off another piece of toast. He tried to force it into Ed's mouth; Ed bit his fingers instead. "Ow! You piece of shit!"

"Chew on dat, fugger!" Ed snarled, spitting out the toast. Mason hauled back and struck Ed across the face with the butt of the bullwhip. "I don't think you want your automail back very badly!"

"I jus' wanna drin'!" Ed's voice cracked. "I jus' wanna goddamn drin'!"

Mason grabbed him by the jaw again, digging in his fingers. "You'll get your drink when I'm good and ready, and not before. Now, assaulting a guard ... I think that's twenty lashes, if I'm not mistaken ...? And you've assaulted two of us, now."

Ed felt himself go pale, but he set his jaw. He could endure this. They didn't want him dead, after all. Flogging a dead body wasn't interesting.

Mason forced the gag back into Ed's mouth furiously and tied it so tight Ed wasn't sure it wasn't cutting into the corners of his mouth. "I'll be nice, drop the punishment to only one assault," he said as he tied off he knot. "We'll make up for it with some more time in solitary, all right?" He walked around Ed smartly.

Ed fixed his eyes on the far wall and braced himself.

By the tenth lash he could barely catch his breath, his teeth digging into the gag. His ears were ringing, and the far wall had blurred. His arm had cramped. His back ... it felt as if it was on fire. "Mason, stop," he heard. It sounded as if it were from a million miles away. "Mason. For god's sake, he's going to faint."

"Oh, we should worry about _that_. Foley, he hit you in the mouth!"

"He's not your personal punching bag! Get a goddamn grip."

"This piece of shit here--"

"Mason! He's not gonna come back even if you beat this kid into a pile of broken bones!"

There was moment of silence. "You have no right to talk about--"

"Don't make me go to the warden, Mason. There's going to be questions as it is."

"He's right, Mason," agreed another voice. "Give it a rest for today. It's not like he's going anywhere." There were some snickers.

"... fine. Let him down."

The hands letting him down were not gentle, but Ed choked back any reaction. Everything hurt, but his back was nearly unbearable. Every move, every brush made him wince and suck in a breath. "Get him some water," someone said as they picked his gag off, and then he was being forced to sit up properly and a glass was jammed into his mouth. The water poured over his tongue and spilled out of his mouth and down his chin, and Ed drank painfully but as fast as he could before it was snatched away again.

He never remembered the trip back to solitary, but at least he didn't have to try to entertain himself this time. The fever-dreams were more than enough.


End file.
